"But one of your countrymen says that I 'hide {61} far from the world among the ugly Welsh hills.' He writes it in an American journal of fabulous circulation, and I suppose people believe the tale." Patti laughed at the thought of a too credulous public, and then she added: "Really, they write the oddest things about my home, as if it were either the scene of Jack-the-Giant-Killer's exploits on the top of the Beanstalk, or a prison in a desolate land." After visiting Patti at Craig-y-Nos I wondered no more why this enchanting woman sang "Home, Sweet Home" so that she fascinated millions. Her own home was far from being "humble", but it was before all things, a home. And she had earned it. There is not anywhere a lovelier spot, nor was there elsewhere a place so remote and at the same time so complete in every resource of civilization. Dinner passed merrily. Merrily is exactly the word to describe it. Up and down the table good stories flew, sometimes faster than one could catch them. Nobody liked a good joke better than Patti, and when she heard one that particularly pleased her she would interpret it to some guest who had not sufficiently mastered the language in which it was told. It was all sheer comedy, and after watching it, and hearing _La Diva_ speak in a variety of tongues, I asked: "I wonder if you have what people call a native tongue, or whether all of them came to you as a gift of the gods." "Oh, I don't know so many languages," she {62} replied, "only--let's see--English, German, Italian, Spanish, and Russian." "And which do you speak best, or like best?" "I really don't know. To me there is no difference, as far as readiness goes, and I suppose 'the readiness is all.'" "Not quite all. But what is your favourite, if you have a favourite among them?" "Oh, Italian! Listen!" And then she recited an Italian poem. Next to hearing Patti sing, the sweetest sound was her Italian speech. Presently she said: "Speaking of languages, Mr. Gladstone paid me a pretty compliment a little while ago--nearly three years ago. I will show you his letter to-morrow, if you care to see it." Patti forgot nothing. The next day she brought me Mr. Gladstone's letter. The Grand Old Man had been among her auditors at Edinburgh, and after the performance he went on the stage to thank her for the pleasure she had given him. He complained a little of a cold which had been troubling him, and Patti begged him to try some lozenges which she found useful. That night she sent him a little box of them. The old statesman acknowledged the gift with this letter: 6, Rothesay Terrace, Edinburgh. October 22, 1890. Dear Madame Patti: I do not know how to thank you enough for your charming gift. I am afraid, however, that the use {63} of your lozenges will not make me your rival. _Voce quastata di ottante' anni non si ricupera_.